Filling the Silence
by Flaignhan
Summary: As is always the case when it comes to Molly it is just the right thing at just the wrong time.


**A/N: **So I'm gonna kind of maybe aim for a fic a day. After this I have 3 oneshots left (as things currently stand in my brain) which I'll try to fit in around work and get belted out by Sunday. Spoilers for Sign of Three, so if you've not seen it, run along...or be spoiled, if you're into that kind of thing. Enjoy!

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><p><strong>Filling the Silence<strong>

**by Flaignhan**

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><p>He's not sure how she manages it, but she makes it back before he does. She must have gotten a taxi and she must have paid the driver well to ensure she was back in London within the hour. He doesn't know how she got in either, and wonders if, for second, whether she broke in. He frowns down at the lock, but doesn't see any damage.<p>

"I've got a key," she says softly. "Mrs Hudson went on holiday while you were dead. Asked me to keep an eye on things."

"Holiday?" Sherlock asks with a frown.

"Yeah," Molly replies. "With some of the old dears from her kaluki club."

He disregards the information. It hardly seems relevant now. He removes his coat slowly, careful not to disturb his suit too much, then carefully takes off his jacket and at last turns to Molly.

"Tea?" she asks. He doesn't respond, and so she stands up, heading over to the cabinet in the corner and pulling out a bottle and two crystal tumblers. "Something stronger?"

He nods, loosens his tie, then heads for his armchair, pulling his collar open. He collapses into the chair, and moments later, Molly presses a glass into his hand, then curls up in the seat opposite, holding her own glass against her chest.

He sips his whiskey, and the burn in his throat invigorates him, chasing away the hollow feeling in his chest. He doesn't know what to say to her, knowing full well how quickly she must have acted, how sharply she must have told Tom that she was leaving early, how she must have slipped out quietly enough for nobody else to notice and ask questions. He doesn't really feel like talking, and she must understand that, because she hasn't pressed him for answers, or tried to cheer him up with inane comments. She's not even watching him, just glancing up occasionally to presumably check that he's all right. He's glad she's there. He's not sure how he would have dealt with staring ahead at an empty chair, the silence of the empty house pressing in on him.

It's a long time before the silence is broken, and it is done so by Molly's phone. She glances down at the text and rolls her eyes, before flicking the switch to silence the phone and tossing it back into her bag.

"Tom?" he asks.

"Yeah," she answers, glancing down at her bag then back to Sherlock. "Worrying." She offers him a brief smile and takes a sip of her whiskey, pulling a face as she swallows.

"Shouldn't you...alleviate his concerns?" Sherlock asks carefully. He doesn't want to get involved, but at the same time, he doesn't want her presence at Baker Street to be causing tension with her fiancé, even if he is an idiot.

"Nah," she says offhandedly. "He knows where I am, he's just being - " She doesn't finish her sentence. Her phone is vibrating in her bag, and Sherlock looks over. He can see it, lit up, a picture of Tom, sporting a grin larger than necessary gurning at him from the screen. Molly sighs and after a moment, reaches down, snatches it up, and answers the call. "What?"

Sherlock taps his fingers on the arm of his chair, trying not to eavesdrop on the conversation. He's never heard Molly sound so irritated. Normally she's chipper to the point of being nauseating, but not tonight. Certainly not with Tom.

"I _told you_," she says. "I had something I needed to deal with."

He hears his own name from the other end of the phone and feigns interest interest in the bottom of his glass, swirling the whiskey around.

"Yeah, I know," she says, "I'm with him."

Following that comment is torrent of words in a raised voice, and when Sherlock glances up, Molly puts her hand over the bottom of her phone and mouths a _sorry_ at him. He shakes his head, to tell her it doesn't matter, then slumps down in his seat, waiting for Tom's rant to peter out. Molly huffs several times, tries to interrupt twice and gives up, and when eventually, Tom falls silent, she lets the coolness hang for a moment before speaking.

"He needs a _friend_ tonight."

John's name is mentioned at the other end of the line and Molly looks horrified.

"It's his _wedding night_!" she hisses in disgust. "He can't just - "

Tom interrupts and Molly lets out a sigh.

"In case you _missed_ that bit of the celebrations, Greg's just arrested a _murderer_. He's unavailable."

Sherlock sharpens his hearing, interested in what ill-chosen path Tom will go down next that will incur Molly's wrath. It's quite the experience, witnessing her like this, but all the same, he'd rather _not_ be the source of contention between the two of them. He hears the words _Mrs Hudson_ and can't keep himself from rolling his eyes.

"No," Molly says. "She wouldn't be able to stop him."

Sherlock looks up at this, and she's avoiding his gaze.

"I can't tell you that, it's not my business to tell. Just go back to the room and watch telly or something. Don't sit around with a face like a smacked arse all night just because I'm not there."

Apparently Tom hangs up, because Molly pulls her phone away from her ear, scowls at it, then drops it back into her bag.

"You think this is a danger night?" Sherlock asks.

Molly shrugs. "I don't know, do I? Only you know that."

Sherlock blinks and takes another sip of his whiskey, mulling her words over. In truth, he hadn't even thought about it, but he also knows that because of Molly, he hasn't had to sit alone all night.

"You needn't have left the wedding…" he says, looking down into his glass. He feels a sense of responsibility for the argument, and wonders whether he ought to get used to solitude once again and stop causing people problems.

"I was worried about you," Molly says. "At first I thought you might have gone out for some air…but when you didn't come back…"

"You could have texted," he says crisply, draining the last of his whiskey and setting the glass down on the floor by the side of his chair.

Molly shakes her head. "If I'd texted you asking if you were all right, what would you have said?"

Sherlock exhales slowly before answering. "I would have said I was fine." He looks up at her, gauging her reaction, but her expression doesn't change.

"Exactly," she says. "Best to just catch you by surprise. Harder for you to lie."

She's got him there. Though of course he finds lying under pressure to be no more stressful nor detrimental to quality than lying without, but that's not really the issue. She's here because she's worried about him, and because she can't trust him to be honest with her, when it comes to matters of himself. Sometimes, he really wishes she wasn't so perceptive.

"It's gotten you in trouble though," he tells her, nodding towards her phone. She rolls her eyes impatiently. and raises her glass to her lips, swallowing another mouthful of whiskey and pulling yet another face.

"I'm not sure it's…" she says, her voice a little hoarse from the whiskey. She fiddles with the ring on her left hand and shakes her head. "He stood up in the middle of a wedding reception and suggested _meat dagger_ as a way of killing somebody…"

"So you don't think it's going to work because he'd make a dreadful murderer and an even worse detective?" he asks delicately.

"It's not just that," she says, her eyes still fixed on the ring. "I…I dunno."

"What about all that sex you were having?" He tries to keep his tone mild, professional even. He considers it a legitimate line of enquiry, but Molly starts laughing and eventually looks up at him, her eyes bright.

"It's just sex," she says. "It's not…it's not the be all and end all you know."

"So he's not very good then?"

She shakes her head. "No, he's fine. It's not that. It's just…it's nice, you know?"

"You mean dull."

"Nice to feel _wanted_," she says firmly, giving him a hard look that he's not used to. He supposes he's had it coming by taking this precarious road, but from what he's learned in all his years of taking cases, sex is a very powerful motivator. If people want it, they often don't care who they upset or betray, just as long as they get it. And, all things considered, the only possible conclusion is that Tom is nothing short of mediocre. A description which suits him down to the ground, in Sherlock's opinion.

"Anyway," Molly says. "It doesn't really matter, not at the moment, at least."

Sherlock takes the hint and drops the subject, but doesn't have anything else to talk about. He stretches out his legs in front of him, crossing them at the ankles, and tries to think of something to say, but fails miserably. There's nothing. He's terrible at small talk, and it wouldn't be so bad if Molly wasn't so adept at reading him.

"You know things are going to change," she says, slipping off her shoes and shifting in the armchair so she can tuck her feet under herself. "It's going to be difficult at first, maybe, but it's not going to be the end of things. You _are_ his best friend."

Sherlock waves a dismissive hand. "Who needs a best friend when you've got a wife?"

"Oh come on, you think he's going to just give up on solving crimes that easily?" Molly asks with a smile. She's finding his concerns about loneliness trivial, and he doesn't know whether he ought to find that offensive or reassuring. Now however, away from the loud music and the dancing couples, his decision to leave the wedding early seems a bit silly, almost childish.

"I should have stayed, shouldn't I?"

Molly scrunches her nose. "Yeah, I think so."

"But even if I did, I wouldn't have had anyone to dance with," he says with a shrug. "So maybe it's best that I left."

"Would you have danced, even if you did have someone?" Molly asks with a sceptical frown.

"Oh yes," he replies. "I love dancing. It goes hand in hand with the music. Always loved it."

She almost laughs, and he can tell that part of her thinks that he's joking. She shakes her head as her grin fades, and they fall silent for a moment, before she looks up at him, serious now, all traces of smiles vanished.

"You played beautifully," she tells him. "Really beautifully."

"Thank you," he says. He reaches for his whiskey glass, wanting to feel that comforting burn at the back of the throat again, but it's empty, and the bottle is out of reach, sitting on the desk.

"And…" Molly begins slowly, tracing her index finger around the lip of her glass. "Next time we're at a wedding…I'll dance with you. I'm not very good but…if you want to dance, I'll dance."

He wishes she'd said this a few hours ago, then he might still be at his best friend's wedding and actually enjoying himself, but as is always the case when it comes to Molly it is just the right thing at just the wrong time.

"The next wedding's likely to be yours," he tells her, glancing towards her ring then back to her face.

"You think so?" she asks, one eyebrow raising in uncertainty. Her teeth scrape her bottom lip and she starts to fiddle with her ring again, twisting it round and round on her finger, as though it's a heavy weight and she's easing the strain of it.

"Undoubtedly. And I think it would be a particularly poor show on my part to dance with you while Tom's watching."

"Who says Tom would be invited?" she replies, her words coming so quickly that for moment, he's not entirely sure she's actually said them. He wonders if he's imagined them, whether it's a result of too much champagne, too much paranoia about the future, or perhaps the funny tasting vol-au-vent he had after the service. When she drains the last of her whiskey however, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment, he knows that he has not misheard nor hallucinated. She pulls another comically disgusted face as the whiskey goes down, and gives a small shudder, her eyes squeezed tightly shut.

"There's wine in the fridge if you'd prefer," Sherlock says, standing up and heading towards the kitchen. "It was Mary's but…well, she won't be needing it now, will she?" He opens the fridge and pulls out the bottle, twisting off the lid and searching in the cupboards for a wine glass. At last he finds one, and places it carefully on the counter, pouring a generous glass of Pinot for her. When he passes it to her, he makes sure his fingers brush against her, and in the half second that she looks at him, her large brown eyes alight with curiosity and hope, he can read her entire being. It feels nice to have the tables turned for once.

He goes to the desk for a refill of whiskey, and is soon comfortable in his armchair again. They don't start up another conversation, content with the silence, and Sherlock decides that that's just fine.

After all, they've got an entire lifetime to fill the silence. No need to rush, is there?

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><p><strong>The End.<strong>


End file.
